


Chargemastide

by tinyfierce



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Holiday Cheer, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Satinalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyfierce/pseuds/tinyfierce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vyera Cadash sees the end-of-year holidays as an inconvenience, at best. Bull's determined to change that, and there's no time like the holidays for things to heat up. Dragon Age Holiday Cheer 2014 gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chargemastide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maybethings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/gifts).



> A/N: GUESS WHO GOT YOU AGAIN THIS YEAR MAYBETHINGS
> 
> YEAHHH
> 
> But seriously, wanted to write something non-spoilery for Vyera and Bull. I combed your tumblr looking for info about Vyera and samples of her voice (and you answered my asks, thanks!), and since I wasn't sure which direction you went on Bull's personal quest with her, I went with the last post I saw before I finished. 
> 
> Anyway, just wanted to write something fluffy and sweet – and there's nothing like the holidays for slow burn. =)

**Satinalia, First Day**

  
Full of purpose, Vyera pushed open the tavern door and strode straight ahead.

It was lively, more so than usual as the chill of winter seeped its way even through Skyhold's protective magic. The courtyard, once a throughway for sparring and idle chatter, was now the center of all things festive. What had once been a one-minute stroll from one end of the other had become nearly five times that: start walking, avoid scout blindly carrying large rolled-up banner, dodge back from another scout carrying ribbons, take a few steps forward, nearly bump into two mages arguing about how best to light tree candles, maneuver through conversation, circle giant inconvenient conifer firmly mounted in the middle of route, weave through stacks of crates, nearly trip on bottle of wine rolling across the ground, crash into servant chasing after it.

Facing this everywhere across Skyhold, her usually chipper and upbeat demeanor had understandably been dealt a serious blow. No, the winter celebration was not winning any points with the Inquisitor, and it hadn't even formally started yet.

Still grousing, she reached Krem's usual seat. One look at what she held in her outstretched hand, and he smirked, thumbing in his commander's general direction.   
  
“Bull,” she called as she closed the distance, and he turned.   
  
She held up a poorly-carved statuette made to look like one of the war table's figures, most likely made from a bottle cork. She spun it once, twice between her fingers and cleared her throat.

The qunari merely grinned at his handiwork. “Nice, huh?”

“The war council regrets to inform you,” she began flatly, “that your 'requisition assignment' is a giant waste of Skyhold resources.” Her nose wrinkled the more she looked at the crudely-hewn figure. “What _is_ this supposed to be, anyway?”

“A man and a tree,” he explained, the chair beneath him creaking in protest as he leaned forward to point out the finer details in his carving. “You see, this is the trunk. And this here is the farmer. And that's his– ”

“Lovely,” she interrupted, settling her free hand on her hip. “But what does that have to do with beans, exactly?”  
  
“ _Cocoa_ beans,” he corrected. He tilted his head and gestured to the carving again. “Hometown delicacy. Grow on trees. Grind 'em into a powder, and there's nothing else like it!”

Sighing at the look on his face, Vyera couldn't help the corners of her mouth tugging upwards ever so slightly. “Well, Cullen and Leliana say that diverting half a dozen ships to Rivain to pick them up is completely unfeasible.” She tossed him the figure, allowing herself a quick admiring glimpse of the scars on his hands before pulling her gaze back to business.

“You almost got Josephine,” she admitted. “When she read the word 'cocoa,' her eyes glazed over like a Feastday ham.” He chuckled, and Vyera crossed her arms over her chest. “Final verdict, though: no way.”  
  
“Not a problem, Boss.” He leaned back, hooking one arm over the back of the chair and lifting his chin. “I'll ask Varric. That guy gets shit done.”

He spread his knees, and the inviting look of that gesture wasn't lost on the Inquisitor as she turned and pulled her hood up to face the incoming cold.

* * *

**Satinalia, Second Day**

_Festooned_.

That was the best word for the courtyard in its present state, walls covered in long banners and ribbons hanging from the parapets, and the massive tree Dorian had insisted upon choosing rendering the sparring arena unusable. Decorated poles had been mounted in the ground, lanterns hung, and the smell of pies fought with the sharp tang of tree sap for dominance.

“You putting this in your reports, too?”  
  
Vyera nudged Bull with her foot, prompting him to chuckle. They stood on the landing halfway in the middle of the keep steps, a high enough vantage point to observe the goings-on.

“Just watching,” he said, scratching his chin as a fond grin wound itself across his craggy features. “Holidays are the best. Even the Vints know how to throw a good party.”

The dwarf murmured something noncommittal in response, and Bull glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Don't agree?”

She sighed, watching as servants pried open crates of spices and sorted them accordingly. “I never cared for them,” she admitted. “Mostly they were just occasions for the annual brunt-assigning of family guilt.” With a shrug, she grimaced at the memories of uncomfortable feasts and passive-aggressive dinner conversations. “Besides, I was always busy – the carta's got a lot to do when people are busy looking the other way celebrating.”

He turned to face her, spreading his arms. “Then come join the Chargers! We'll change your mind.”

There was no hiding the amusement on her face as she looked up at him. “A bunch of qunari-led mercenaries celebrate Satinalia?”

“Kind of. Fourth day, anyway.” Proudly, he tapped his chest. “We call it Chargemastide.”

Vyera raised an eyebrow, still smiling, but saying goddamn nothing to reward him for that awful name.

“Most of the Chargers don't have kin,” he explained, “and everyone else can't be with theirs. It's the life, you know? So instead of getting raw about it and drinking ourselves numb, we took all the best of every festival and drink ourselves _sick._ It's a lot more fun, too.”

“All right,” she said, crossing her arms. “I'll bite. What's first on the list?”

Bull laughed, a booming sound that echoed in the Inquisitor's chest and made her heart thrum.   
  
“First,” he began, “Orzammar, for Rocky. He gets the foulest, strongest stuff he can find– ”  
  
“Really not selling me on this, Bull.”  
  
“ – and we all make toasts to what failed to kill us this year. Then it's Dalish's turn.” He made a sweeping motion with one arm, taking a half-step back. “Old clan tradition. You search what you're carrying at that _exact_ moment, find the best gift. Put it on the table. Then we all get ale and whoever downs theirs fastest gets first choice.”   
  
At her skeptical expression, the qunari grinned. “The drinking part was our idea.”

“I'm game,” she said, “but won't the best ones be gone quickly?”  
  
“Doesn't matter.” He snorted and spread his hands palm-up. “After a few of _our_ drinks, you can't tell your ass from your elbow. Went in one year wanting the piece of drake leather Stitches dug up for a grip, woke up in the morning with a goat testicle necklace.”

“Wow,” Vyera managed, doing her best to look some semblance of impressed.  
  
“ _Yeeah_ ,” Bull rubbed the back of his neck, the return path of his hand across his chest hard to ignore. “Apparently almost punched Krem through a wall over it. Don't remember a damn thing, but I kept it anyway.” He thumbed back toward the tavern. “Want to see it?”

She turned away to hide her smile.

“No way in hell, thanks.”

* * *

**Satinalia, Third Day**

“If I have to smile and simper and shake _one more_ hand,” Vyera muttered over her drink, “someone's getting stabbed.”

The Josephine-mandated finery chafed at her neck and wrists, but the talking-to she'd been given about how important their allies in the nobility were had been grudgingly accepted. These were the coffers funding the Inquisition, and this feast wasn't just about the food.

Vyera had been sure to situate herself near the banquet table. She'd learned a lot from these dinners – a mouthful of sweetmeats, when well-timed, could save you from at least fifteen seconds of conversation. A minute, tops.

She was pondering what strategy to best employ when a blonde elf joined her, letting loose a revolted noise and undisguised sneer.

“Pompous twats, the lot of 'em,” she huffed. “An' that's an insult to twats everywhere.”

“Tell me about it,” sighed the Inquisitor. “But if we try to escape, Leliana will have us shot.”

“ 's the only reason I'm still here,” Sera agreed, plucking a handful of cheese slices from the artful arrangement behind them. “That and the food's not half bad.” Half a dozen went in her mouth. “An' Bull'f fing.”

“Bull's thing?”

At her quick interest, Sera grinned smugly.

_Goddamnit,_ Vyera cursed to herself. She needed to get that under control, and how.

“ 's like this, see.” The archer sidled up to her, discreetly tugging at something tucked under her cuffs. A hint of leafy green briefly peeked out before it was expertly hidden away again.

“Parsley?”

“ _Parsley_ ,” Sera confirmed, snickering. “I've got quick hands, an' Bull's got quick eyes. I see how many pockets I can stuff bits of it into, an' he has to call 'em.”

“I see.” Her eyes followed one of the Orlesian minor nobles crossing in front of them, nodding her head in acknowledgment as he gave a passing bow. “And if you get caught, it's just a vegetable.”

“ 's the plan. That, an' not go mad on one of these snotty cocks.”

Stretching a bit to accommodate for her height, Vyera caught sight of Bull quickly. He stood within an easy distance, drinking and talking with Varric over a very fashionable yet horribly-undersized side table.

“So,” she asked casually, “how many has he gotten so far?”

“All 'cept one,” she managed through a mouthful of bread. “He's good, real good. You were s'posed to be next, but...” She wagged a finger, smirking. “Never takes his eyes off you, does he? 's asking for it, that is.”

Heat spread from beneath the Inquisitor's collar, warming her throat.

“Got any more parsley?”

Sera's grin broadened. “You want in?”

“Damn right I do.”  
  
“Brilliant. Two shakes.”

Bull met her gaze through a gap in the well-dressed crowd, just long enough for Vyera to pointedly raise her glass.

He toasted her back, smirking as the Inquisitor had a fistful of parsley unceremoniously shoved into her waist sash.

* * *

**Satinalia, Fourth Day**

The instant night fell, Chargemastide began with a bang.

On the second floor of the tavern, raucous and joyous, were the mercenary company and their adopted sister-in-arms. Their drinks were always full, their faces bright, and their cobbled-together traditions were drunken perversions of their pious roots.

Vyera loved it from the start.

The toasts of 'these bastards didn't get us' had included everything from Venatori and dragons (the latter getting a particularly loud cheer) to tripping on a stick and that one wart Rocky had.

“Coulda killed me,” he growled. “Thing didn't look natural.”

She'd even won one of the better prizes of Dalish's battle royale – though 'better' was entirely subjective – and planned on using her new nug carving as a paperweight for the important documents.

Naturally, the drinking was followed by more drinking. The Fereldans in the group made a rule that every time anyone, Charger or no, caught fire from a Satinalia candle, everyone drank. They'd emptied a few tankards that way, toasting the poor singed bastards.

There was one tradition that played to her strengths, however. She might not have been much of a drinker, but she was Carta, and she was a gambler – and Krem's Tevinter tradition was a game of poker. True to the Vints, material things weren't important; they played for favors. Unspecified, non-retractable, at-the-winner's-discretion favors. Everyone's name went into the pot, and if you won it, you kept it.

Krem won Bull's. Bull won two: Stitches' and, to her chagrin, Vyera's.

Vyera, however, won _four._

“Not bad, boss,” Bull had observed as he tossed his cards back in. “But don't forget, I own your ass.” He tapped the paper with her name on it, clawed finger looking menacing as she steeled her features.

“You might own it,” she countered, leaning back and folding her hands. “But maybe you don't know how to _use_ it right.”

She was rewarded with a chorus of wolf-whistles and claps on the back – and the slow roll of Bull's shoulders as his eyes damn near burned a path up her from toes to tits.

Yes. Much better than Carta holidays.

It was well into the evening when it came time for Bull's tradition, which was another in the long lineup of 'original sounded lovely, now drunken chaos' events planned for the evening. He explained that Seheron was overrun by migratory birds in winter, and the qunari would have meditation contests as to who could attract the most to roost on their horns with their stillness.

For Chargemastide, however, everyone took turns balancing things on their heads while the others pelted them with corks.

It may not have been dignified, but they made up the difference in enthusiasm. Bull must've told the tavernkeep months before, because there were washtubs – _washtubs_ – filled with corks of every size and shape. The serving girls were only too happy to get in on it, hurling childish insults and laughing themselves to tears as they whipped tiny projectiles at whoever the current victim was.

Vyera was good and soused for her round, taunting everyone to come take a shot at the famous Inquisitor and pass another book to add to the head-tower and she's already lasted twice as long as Skinner and she could water daisies with those insults and you call that a throw? and she could do this all night, bring your worst! Of course they'd responded to the challenge, and she only gave in after Grim damn near dumped a half-full tub over her head.

Her ribs hurt from laughing long after they'd moved on to the next drinking game. It appeared to be nothing but playing single cards and the lowest drank, but it was enough. Lost in a heady, boozy glow, Vyera lazily rolled her forehead on the table beside the game, listening to the stories and smiling pleasantly. Any attempts to move were protested by her sense of balance, and the table seemed more and more welcoming the more the world spun.

A chuckle and warm hand on her shoulder roused her slightly.   
  
“Come on, mighty Inquisitor,” Krem gently coaxed, “you've had enough.”  
  
He attempted to move her to sitting, but her rolling vision saw fit to steal her body of any remaining strength. She slumped back onto the table, groaning.

“I'm using my favor,” she grumbled, attempting to fish around in her pocket for the scrap of paper with Krem's name on it. “ 'Let me die here' is good.”

“Keep it,” he laughed. “I've got a better idea.”

The last thing she clearly remembered was a strong arm under her backside and another around her shoulders, and then all the blood left her brain.

When she came to, her head was a little clearer – though the situation wasn't. Not at first. It took her a moment to realize that she was being carried, and that her generous savior had already made it to the Great Hall.

“Bull?”

She could feel the chuckle vibrate in his chest, and the soothing rumble of his voice was stronger still.

“You up? Good, get the door. My hands are full.”  
  
As they reached the door to the stairs, he leaned over, and she lazily turned the latch. He walked through and kicked it shut, starting on the long trek up to her chambers.

“You did good tonight, Boss.” His tone was edged with pride, and Vyera's skin tingled at every point of contact with his. “Made their night. Really.” He laughed, and that tingle grew into a burn. “Got some stories to tell now.”

She let her forehead fall against his shoulder, warm breath brushing against his throat. “I'm glad I came out.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Snickering, she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. Her strength had returned enough to shift in his arms, and she raised her head to plant a kiss on his scarred cheek. She felt his smirk widen beneath her lips at the gesture, and he rumbled appreciation.

“Now _that's_ my kind of thank-you.”

“Aye-aye, captain!”   
  
It didn't take much at all to turn his head and claim his mouth.

The feet beneath her stilled, and she felt him gently lift her a bit, easing the difference in their height. The kiss was chaste, by most standards – parted lips and soft pressure – in the darkness of the stairwell tower.

She pulled back, and immediately felt him let out a long breath.

“Damn.”

She tensed. “No?”  
  
He held her a bit tighter as he began climbing again. “I'm not saying no,” he said slowly. “But I can't say 'yes.' Not to drunk people. It's a thing I... try not to do.”

As his meaning sank in, her relief was palpable. “So if I were sober– ”  
  
“You have to ask?”

She smiled against him, enjoying the way he made noises in his throat when he was irritated.

“Redheads are always trouble,” he groused.

“But you love 'em.”

“Shit yeah.”  
  


* * *

**Satinalia, Fifth Day**

Even with the hangover, she had to admit that the music was a brilliant idea.

Josephine had brought in musicians from the Fereldan lowlands, a whole host of them, and the afternoon's festivities had been lively and merry as a result. It didn't take long for Skyhold's Fereldan occupants to start dancing and dragging others in to do the same, locking hands and switching partners and spinning in patterned steps. It didn't matter your nationality or race – anyone without something in their hands, Orlesian, Tevinter, elf, and dwarf alike were enthusiastically kidnapped.

Vyera watched from the relative safety of a purple-and-gold awning, leaning against a wooden pole as the throbbing in her head came and went. This was good to see; every person here deserved a chance to enjoy themselves and forget, if only for a short time, the danger that the lurked beyond the keep's high walls.

She stifled a laugh as one of the cook's hands grabbed Cullen by the wrists and yanked him into the line of dance against his protests that really, he wasn't just being modest when he said that he couldn't dance and _maker_ let him just not injure someone.

He'd disappeared into the crowd when a warm cup was pressed into Vyera's hands.  
  
“Hair of the dog,” Bull insisted. There was a moment when his beautifully imperfect hands pressed against hers, and the rough brush of his skin sent gooseflesh spreading across her arms.  
  
With a small smile and a nod of thanks, she lifted it to her lips. The aroma of the spiced wine he'd brought was simultaneously both wonderful and repulsive, but her head won over her stomach and she took an experimental sip.

As she felt it settle into her churning gut, the Inquisitor visibly winced. Both from the wine – and from the bandage she was about to rip off.

“So,” she began, “about last night.”

He turned, leaning back against the pole opposite hers. “This should be good.”

“I was drinking a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't usually– ”  
  
He held up a hand to stop her. “Gonna stop you there, boss.” Frowning a bit, he scratched his back against the pole. “I know how this goes. 'I was drunk,' 'I wasn't thinking,' 'Never again,' same shit. Heard it all before. But I'm not buying it.”

Focusing her gaze on her cup, the dwarf sighed into the steam. “There's nothing to _buy_ , Bull. I'm apologizing.”  
  
“Don't.”

The tone in his voice caught her attention, and when she looked up, she was met with a feral-looking smirk.

“Surprised me,” he said. “You're a timid one. Didn't think you'd make the first move.”

Tension eased, Vyera allowed herself a snort of disbelief. “Timid? Have you _seen_ me fight?”

“Yeah, and nothing gets me worked up hotter than a woman who can take a demon down in under a minute.” He crossed one ankle over the other. “Last night, though? Should do bold shit like _that_ more often.”

She smirked as she sipped at her wine.  
  
“Noted.”

* * *

**Satinalia, Sixth Day**

Not that she'd ever admit it to Dorian, but that stupidly massive tree was absolutely beautiful.

From her balcony, Vyera looked down on the festivities below. It was a crisp, clear night, and the glittering lights below made the days of suffering various inconveniences worth it. She heard voices, chattering and singing and cheering in different tongues.

“All right, you got me,” Bull called from his seat on the stone bench behind her. “Best seats in the house.”

“I _told_ you.” She turned, sporting a well-earned smirk. “Being Inquisitor does have its perks.”

The downside made itself clear quickly, though – a cold breeze caught the back of her neck, slipping into her clothes on its way past.

At her shiver, Bull chuckled. “Lot colder up here when you're sober.”

“Come to think of it,” she said thoughtfully, “the only other time you've been up here was the other night, and we were both plastered.”

“Yeah, about that.” He waved her over, and she obligingly closed the gap. As he raised his left hand, she was struck with the impulse to run her fingers over every crease, every scar, every misshapen knuckle.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”  
  
“Three.”

The other arm caught her around the backside, pulling her straight into his lap.

“Good.”

* * *

**Satinalia, Final Day**

Vyera's hair, thick and straight and one of the few points of vanity she allowed herself, covered the pillows in well-mussed waves.

Propped up on one elbow, Bull hummed appreciatively as he let a few locks run over his clawed fingers.

“Redheads?” the Inquisitor prompted, grinning.

“ _Redheads_ ,” he confirmed. The hand not supporting him slid its way over the sensitive swell of her hip, earning him a halfhearted swipe and a snicker as Vyera stretched, shifting the blankets around her.   
  
“I deserve a _break_ ,” she teased. “Fun as that was, that could hardly be called resting. And it's already morning.”

“I don't half-ass things.”

“I noticed.”  
  
She rolled over into his chest, enjoying the sound of his massive heartbeat and the warmth of his skin. It was gone quickly, however, as he suddenly rolled toward his end of the bed with a grunt.

“Right, that's it.”

Confused, she watched as he rifled around in his long-since-discarded pants, determinedly looking for something. “You're letting the cold air in under the blankets.”

“I know. Just bear it until – ha!”

He returned, pulling her back into his arms and reaching over her to triumphantly slap a piece of paper down on the end table. “I'm calling in my favor.”  
  
Burying herself in his warmth, Vyera frowned. “Already? What for?”  
  
He rolled onto his back, arm still pinned beneath her. His feet hung well over the edge of the bed, and he lifted one to illustrate his point. “You've got a week to commission a bigger bed. Or else _I_ get to choose where we do this.”

She laughed, braving the cold air to retrieve the paper. “Hang onto it. You don't need to waste it on that – I'll take care of it first thing tomorrow.” She gently pressed it into his face, eliciting a chuckle. “Call it a Satinalia present.”

He laughed and grabbed a firm handful of ass to bring her back in. “Change your mind about holidays?”

“Maybe.” She smirked as she closed her eyes. “Just don't screw it up in the last twelve hours and you've got a chance.”

“Yes ma'am.”

 

 


End file.
